


the stars they paint your words

by Tweedledee_7



Category: No Fandom
Genre: I meant it I'm currently too lazy to write long stuff, M/M, Short, actually it's just random words strung together to hopefully make sense, ill die if any of this isn't gay asf, lots of metaphors cuz I'm a sucker for those, maybe a bit cryptic, might seem creepy but that's kind of maybe the point, pals gals and gays, really short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:08:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28651773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tweedledee_7/pseuds/Tweedledee_7
Summary: Hopefully a series of writing prompts. Letters to flowers, songs lost in the wind... whatever inspiration deems interesting in the moment.





	the stars they paint your words

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this here because I don't want my friends to see this on Wattpad. Don't know if anyone will read, but if so, hope you enjoy! It's not real stories, most probably embarrassingly short, vaguely cryptic stuff that appeals to my inner poet, haha. 
> 
> This one is a letter to a rose.
> 
> Hope you have a wonderful day! xx
> 
> (P.S.: I'm not familiar with posting on ao3, I hope I'm doing this alright.)
> 
> \- M

Dear rose,

As I sit here in the library, I think about how you would look blooming from the spine of my favorite novel. I wonder if you would like it, or if you would be more of a Jane Austen type of thing. I wonder if your perfume would impregnate the pages the way they do the spring wind.

As I sit and contemplate, I get distracted – way too often. I get distracted by pretty smiles and sparkly eyes and the way the sun streaks gold into his hair. He does not look at me, but that’s okay. I see him pick up Pride and Prejudice and I shiver. I think of how well you would fit between his locks.

I sit and listen to him think (not that I can hear his thoughts) (I can hear the stutter in his breath when words surprise him, and I wonder how he’d react if I whispered them in his ear). I see him pick _La Belle et la Bête_ , and I want to see his eyes as I murmur French words into his cheeks.

 _Je veux tracer une constellation avec les étoiles dans tes yeux_.

Sometimes I sit next to him at a table. He always wears ear buds, so he doesn’t hear me ask about his favourite colour. I really want to know. Maybe I could weave flowers into a crown and make him king of my heart.

I want to fold the petals of his lips and keep them in my garden of words.

I think he really likes Bowie. Sometimes I hear him hum along to _Ziggy Stardust_ as he writes. He lets me look over his shoulder as he composes – mostly essays about modern psychological discoveries. I don’t understand it, but I’m fascinated by the swoops and loops of his handwriting.

Once, I caught him writing a story. A story about a lake house; a lake house that saw dozens of families grow and leave, grow and leave… We all grow and leave, don’t we?

I wish he’d write about you; I wish he’d read about the way your petals seem to bloom the same way under his cheeks as they do in the moist afternoon.

I wish he knew that all the droplets in the rain and the dew, are tears – tears I spilled for you. I still admire the way you wilt, and fade, and go away. But you come back, you always come back.

Today, I try to talk to him again. He doesn’t hear me over the sound of _Heroes_ playing softly in his ears.

_I, I will be king_

_And you, you will be queen_

He sings softly, and I’ve never been more delighted. I feel as though he’s singing to me.

I wonder if he has a queen. I’ve never seen him with anyone but me. Maybe I’m his person, the way he is mine. I hope so. I hope he knows.

_We can be heroes for ever and ever_

_What d'you say?_

I say yes. I hope he hears me. It'll always be yes for him.

I lean in and inhale his sweet perfume. Oh! He smells like you do. So sweet. So pretty. I want to place a kiss at the corner of his eyes.

They’re brown. His eyes, they’re brown. Well, more golden than anything. Like a thick veil of honey glazed over them. His hair is also brown, the colour of rich chocolate. It looks like velvet. I want to run my fingers through it and count all his locks.

He’s so sweet. All over, like melted sugar. I call him Treacle.

Sometimes, he’ll read out loud, and I feel like he is reading to me. Isn’t that so, so sweet?

I reach my hand out and lay it over his. His skin is soft under my palm, and I press as gently as I can.

Soft, soft, soft. He’s so soft.

He doesn’t flinch – doesn’t move. But I see, at the corner of his mouth he’s hiding a grin.

He’s so bright. Like the sun. And I am Icarus, crashing into his splendour.

I see him every day, my Treacle.

He never sees me anymore. Not since I’m gone.

My blood blooms in your petals, the petals he's holding right now, dragging across his lips. 

I look right at him when he lets you go, ever so softly, but he doesn't look back.

Treacle, why did you let me go?


End file.
